Worse Than Expected
by Semi-Retired Writer
Summary: SMHC. Prompt fill for Sickdays 4.0 day 5. Peter thinks he's just nervous or carsick, and it goes downhill from there. Heavy emeto warning!


**Worse Than Expected**

(So I recently read "Drive" by builder051 on Tumblr for the first time, and it was amazing but I just wanted to expand on my own version because I loved it so much. If you like emeto stuff, it's a great fic and you should definitely read it!)

Peter had taken buses before, but it wasn't too often. He usually caught the train to school and either webbed himself home or caught a ride with Happy anywhere else. He'd had a few other academic decathlon team bus trips and class field trips though, so the bus wasn't a completely new experience to him. He'd at least been on buses enough times to be surprised to feel carsick this time.

The mild nausea and chills had been there since he'd gotten out of bed this morning and he was regretting initially writing it off as simple hunger. His rushed breakfast of a couple slices of leftover pepperoni pizza and a can of Pepsi sat uneasily in his stomach the whole train ride to school and for the couple classes he'd had to attend this morning, and his stomach was still churning even as he settled into a seat with Ned for the hour-long bus ride to Long Island.

It was a sharp pain, not a constant throb like a usual stomachache for him, but maybe he was misremembering. No, this was more of a stinging stab at his stomach at first, followed by a few minutes during which the pain faded away before it all repeated itself again. He _would_ say he felt like someone was slowly and repeatedly stabbing his stomach, but getting stabbed came with his line of work and he had enough experience to tell him that a stab in the stomach felt different, though perhaps not worse than this.

Knowing the notorious morning traffic in the area, the competing school had agreed to start the mock meet just after lunch time so Peter's school could leave when other traffic would be at a minimum. Normally, this would mean kicking back and relaxing with an early combination lunch and team study session on the bus trip there, but there was nothing relaxing about the idea of eating anything this time.

Aunt May had packed him his usual field trip lunch—she still made him eat something healthy, but she threw in some kind dessert as a reward—but the thought of eating even a little of the ham sandwich, apple, or Snickers bar only made him more nauseous. He passed off his sandwich to a curious Ned and his apple to an unconcerned MJ, pocketing the Snickers bar for later. Sure, he was nauseous now, but how often was he just _given_ a full-size candy bar? He fished a juice box out of his lunch bag and popped the straw in. He could manage some juice.

He did his best to concentrate and join in with everyone else practicing answering potential questions while he sipped on his juice. He wouldn't say his stomach had completely settled, but he was pretty sure it was getting better now, or at least it was much less distracting than it had been during his two classes earlier. This was just a mock meet and didn't really mean too much, but maybe he'd just been nervous for it and had needed to calm down. He'd just keep reminding himself this was for fun, and hopefully the stomachache would go away sooner rather than later.

Distraction worked for a while, and he felt like the whole team got a good amount of practice in before he felt sweat beading on his face while his heart started pounding away. He restrained a shiver and wrapped his arms around his stomach. He couldn't focus on the question Mr. Harrington was asking, so he closed his eyes and leaned back in the seat instead of even trying to answer.

He didn't know how long he stayed like that. It was long enough for Mr. Harrington to ask a good many questions, and he hoped no one had noticed that he'd stopped answering. He muffled a groan when he smelled someone unwrapping a cheeseburger—who the heck packs a burger for a field trip—and tried not to breathe in too deeply. He normally loved a good cheeseburger and certainly didn't mind the smell, but now he was worried that this would be all it took to finish off the ticking time bomb that was his stomach. He thrust the rest of his juice into a surprised Ned's hand and brought his sleeve to his nose to block out most of the odor, but the damage was done.

One second, Peter could feel the chills, and the next moment he almost missed the cold feeling as a flash of heat took over in its place and his nausea peaked with no other warning. He tasted the vaguely bitter and coppery saliva pooling in his mouth, and it did nothing to lessen the nausea. He swallowed hard to save himself from half a mouthful of spit, but his stomach didn't appreciate that either.

He'd felt it coming on for a long time now, but the first somewhat subdued gag still managed to catch him off guard. He didn't have time to reposition himself before he was heaving semi-digested chunks of pizza, soda, and apple juice down his shirt and onto his own lap with a sickening splatter. Ned squeaked and leaped away, closer toward the opposite edge of the seat in a way that would've been hilarious _any_ other time.

He whined and had a few awkward seconds of reprieve to realize that most of the bus had noticed his problem before another louder retch prompted him to lean forward far enough to puke onto the floor instead of himself. A chorus of various disgusted and amused reactions wasn't quite enough to cover the splatter of more vomit onto the floor between his feet. He still felt the heat throughout his body but couldn't repress a shiver of disgust anyway. It felt like no time at all before he was gagging and then heaving again, finally down to watery bile that came up more easily. He puked again and again, couldn't catch his breath, can't breathe, can't breathe, _can't breathe_ , before a final small splatter of straight up bile into the puddle on the floor ended his suffering.

Or it would have ended his suffering if he wasn't surrounded by his now thoroughly disgusted teammates. He covered his face in hopes of easing the embarrassment before he leaned back into the seat and tried to quell the remaining nausea by taking slow, deep breaths through his mouth. Flash was laughing now and he felt his face flush in response under his hands, but he tried to block out the sound and focus on calming his body down.

He was still trying to keep his breathing slow when something plastic was shoved against him. He opened his eyes and peeled his hands away to find a wide-eyed and pale Mr. Harrington had handed him a bucket before backing up as far as he could from the mess, now looking queasy himself. Peter muttered a trembling, "sorry" before the man got too far. Nobody objected—though Flash laughed even harder—when the teacher returned to the front to ask the bus driver to stop at the next store that might have fresh clothes. Peter tried hard not to let his shamed flush spread when he saw everyone who'd been near him slipping into new seating positions that isolated him and Ned in the middle of the bus. Some of them were still whispering and giggling, but at least he couldn't hear exactly what they were saying over the larger distance. The smell of his own vomit was making the nausea worse. He turned his head away and prayed this was all just a very realistic dream.

When he opened his eyes and nothing much had changed, he knew this was still real and he sighed. They'd finally stopped, and Mr. Harrington was running into a convenience store as the bus idled on a less trafficked street and the team chattered around him. He didn't know whether to be thankful or to groan when his teacher returned with a bright blue "I NY" t-shirt and a pair of white sweatpants emblazoned blue with "Columbia University" down one leg. Ned helped shield him from view as he peeled off his thoroughly dirtied shirt, jeans, and sneakers and pulled on the new outfit. He had no shoes now, but at least he wasn't covered in his own sick. _That_ , he could be grateful for. He stuffed his old clothes into the convenience store bag and quickly mourned the loss of a perfectly good pair of jeans before he ditched the bag near the soiled seat. Ned put a nervous hand on his back and guided him to a new seat on the bus before the driver pulled back onto the road.

Moving to sit next to the window didn't really make Peter feel any better, but it was nice of Ned to offer him the spot and he forced a small smile as thanks. He couldn't suppress a shiver as he leaned his forehead against the cool glass. Ned was clearly trying to help, but he was embarrassed, dead tired, and achier than he'd ever felt. To top it off, he had a headache now too. The nausea was still there, but it wasn't as bad as earlier and he tried to be thankful for that. All he wanted to do was try to catch a nap for the rest of the ride. That, and maybe move halfway across the country so no one ever had to know about this day.

One more episode during the remaining twenty minutes of the trip sent him scrambling for the bucket and made his teammates renew their chorus of "ew!" and "gross" as he mostly dry heaved, almost nothing left for him to throw up. Ned, for his part, at least didn't cringe away this time, and he even offered a tentative hand on Peter's shoulder in a not-quite-effective but still appreciated show of comfort.

He managed to catch a few more minutes of rest before the bus pulled up to its stop and most of his teammates wasted no time in rushing off the bus. He was never going to live this down, but it was over now; he had no reason left to be nervous or carsick. He slowly pushed himself to his feet and followed Ned and his teacher off the bus, careful to keep his distance from his other classmates for now.

Yesterday, Peter was beyond excited for this mock meet. He loved any chance to hang out with the decathlon team, and mock meets were a chance to take a much needed short break from school without getting too far behind is his classes. Now he just wanted to get this meet over with even though they were only now beginning to set up in an empty classroom. His stomach still ached and he felt too cold to believe he'd be able to think fast enough to answer any questions today. Peter took pride in being an important part of the team, but with the way he felt, he'd be forever grateful if he could get through this meet without throwing up in front of the other team, let alone answering any of the questions.

His embarrassment and gratitude battled for dominance when Mr. Harrington took in his still too pale skin and shivering and suggested he sit out of the meet until he was feeling better. He sheepishly nodded his agreement and settled down with his head pillowed on Ned's jacket on a desk in the back of the room while everyone else set up at the front.

Peter and Mr. Harrington assumed it was still the carsickness dying off when Peter had to rush out of the decathlon meet during the first few minutes, but when he came back not feeling much better and periodically repeated the process for the next half hour of the meet—at this point, he hadn't answered even one question and he pondered why he even came—Mr. Harrington wasn't so sure about the diagnosis. After the third sprint from the meet, Mr. Harrington followed him and asked—from a very long distance, of course—if Peter wanted to call home instead of staying with the team for the remaining six hours. Peter jumped on the opportunity, at least as much as one could jump on an opportunity while vomiting and with so little energy left. It was really more of a tired grimace and a, "yes, please" as he stumbled to his bag in the classroom to grab his cell phone.

It was a difficult decision to make for someone who was distracted by feeling so sick. Should he call Aunt May and probably make her lose a day's pay to come pick him up? Or would it be better to have to show Mr. Stark what he looked like at his worst? He knew either one would be willing to take him home, and after a short debate he settled on Mr. Stark. Sure, he was really gross right now and it would be embarrassing for Mr. Stark to see him like this, but screw it. Everyone else he knew had already seen his performance today anyway, and Aunt May really needed the money she was making.

He'd gotten through the basic premise over the phone with Happy before he had to toss his phone to Mr. Harrington to work out the details while he ran to the nearest bathroom once more. He came back to find that the call was over, so he dragged his backpack and Ned's jacket to the far corner to form a makeshift bed while he waited.

Flash's disbelieving sputtering woke him next, and he peeled tired eyes open to zero in on Mr. Stark himself halfway through the classroom already. He was thankful when the man didn't question him while helping him up from the floor. It was bad enough that this happened at all; Peter didn't think he could bear repeating what happened to Mr. Stark in front of his team. The man settled for placing a hand on his forehead and looking concerned, but Peter could deal with that.

Mr. Stark let Peter lean onto his shoulder while they walked out of the classroom, but as soon as they were out of sight, he felt himself being lifted to be carried the rest of the way out of the school.

"It's faster this way," Mr. Stark reasoned, and that was good enough for his illness-addled mind. He let his eyes drift closed again until he was being jostled around and found himself in the backseat of Happy's car.

Happy himself looked less than excited to see him, but he averted his gaze and allowed Mr. Stark to guide his head into his lap. He was pretty sure he'd die any other day, but he felt too awful to protest this time. Besides, maybe this was what it would take to finally be closer to his idol. Happy wordlessly handed Peter a plastic bag and muttered some kind of threat involving barf and his car too, but Peter was too tired to try to decipher the rest. At the back of his mind, he questioned why he was so tired today, but he didn't really have the capacity to think about it. He was more focused on _not_ throwing up in front of his mentor.

He felt the nausea peak again at some point during their journey—it was hard to tell when considering he'd settled in for a nap at the beginning of the ride—and he spent a frustratingly long time desperately dry heaving at the side of the highway after Mr. Stark had signaled Happy to pull over onto the shoulder.

It wasn't until he felt weak enough to start stumbling back to the car that Mr. Stark hopped out and helped him stay balanced. He slid into the car and buckled up this time. He'd like to go back to sleep, but he knew it was only a matter of time before this happened again so there wasn't much sense in lying down.

He hadn't had much chance to look around when he'd launched himself out of the car, but as Happy pulled back into the traffic, he saw signs for Manhattan's exit. He must have slept much longer than he'd thought if they were this close. That, or Happy was driving even faster than Peter was used to during missions and other visits to the Avengers tower. He considered protesting going to the tower for a hot minute, but in the end, he really didn't want to be alone in his aunt's apartment right now.

Happy pulled up in front of the tower soon enough, and Peter blushed when he had to practically let Mr. Stark carry him into the building and toward the elevator with an arm around his waist.

They set up in a quiet lounge on one of the higher floors that Peter had never seen before. He wondered if this was where Mr. Stark went to hang out when he wasn't working. He'd seen a kitchen on the way in as well as a few closed doors. Mr. Stark guided him to a grey couch before walking toward one of the closed doors.

He returned with a comforter that he tossed over Peter without preamble before he slipped out of the room again, this time toward the kitchen.

"What do you want to drink, kid?" Mr. Stark called from the kitchen. Now that he mentioned it, Peter realized he was desperately thirsty, but he wondered if he'd even be able to keep down a drink. He wasn't big on the idea of giving his stomach any other ammo against him.

"I don't really want anything," he answered.

"Nope!" Mr. Stark replied. "Can't let you get dehydrated. What would Aunt Hottie say?"

"Mmm… fine, just water?" It was more of a question than a statement, but Mr. Stark arrived a minute later with a tall glass of water, a packet of saltine crackers, and a couple pills.

"You can have those once you can keep anything down," Mr. Stark said when he noticed Peter eyeing the pills. "They should help with that fever, but only if you have a chance to absorb them first." He stared at Peter until he finally reached for the glass and swallowed a tentative sip of the water. Water had never tasted so good, but he was afraid of the consequences of drinking anything.

"How about a movie?" Mr. Stark suggested after the silence had dragged on for a while. "Sick kids watch movies, right?"

How many people could say they'd watched a movie with _the_ Tony Stark? He couldn't turn down that kind of offer, no matter how he was feeling. He was too excited to choose the movie, so Mr. Stark scrolled to some kind of superhero flick. It was clearly targeted toward younger kids, but he wasn't about to complain about Tony Stark's choice of movie. He spent enough time fumbling to unwrap the crackers from their packaging that Mr. Stark reached over and did it for him. He nibbled and sipped periodically and Mr. Stark looked relieved at his cooperation.

It wasn't long before Peter regretted letting his mentor bully him into eating as he hauled himself off the couch and ran off in search of the nearest bathroom. He was midway through losing what little he'd eaten during the first part of the movie when Mr. Stark came in and knelt behind him. He rubbed his hand in an arc across Peter's back and only cringed a little when Peter heaved again.

"I'm okay. You don't have to stay here," Peter offered when he could catch his breath. The man didn't waste much time leaving after that, promising to rewind the movie to where they'd left off when he was ready. Peter was left alone to lean his head onto the toilet seat and moan in misery. He couldn't wait for this to be over.

When he finally trusted his stomach not to revolt again, he cleaned up as well as he could and wobbled his way back to the den. He was surprised to find his couch nest had grown since he left. There were a few throw blankets and a couple pillows now, and he didn't miss the empty trash can Mr. Stark had moved next to the couch. It was still embarrassing to have to be taken care of at his age, but he smiled in thanks anyway, appreciating the work Mr. Stark was putting in just to make him feel better.

Mr. Stark held a mug of black coffee for himself and placed what smelled like some kind of tea on the table for Peter before he grabbed the remote.

"Only if you're up for that," he added, with a pointed look at the tea. "Thought it might be easier to keep down something warm." With that, he un-paused the movie and the two settled in for the rest of the ride.

It couldn't have been more than a few minutes when the cramps started to feel different and sent him running to the bathroom again—" _Kid_! I brought the trash can so you wouldn't have to do that!"—for a different reason, and Peter finally admitted this was probably a stomach flu and groaned. Eventually he stumbled back to the couch and rolled to face the cushions with more of a struggle than he was used to. He wasn't up for staring at a screen anymore; the thought of having to look at anything made him feel queasy all over again. He'd sure love to sleep the rest of this off, but the lingering cramps and nausea weren't making it easy.

He felt the couch dip next to his feet and someone grabbed his calf lightly and started rubbing. He opened his eyes and looked long enough to find Mr. Stark there. He felt like he should be surprised, but he was too exhausted and in too much discomfort to feel much of anything emotion-wise. He just accepted the comfort for what it was and tried to ignore his aching stomach and go to sleep.

He woke up next to Mr. Stark shaking his shoulder gently and holding out his cell phone. It was late afternoon now judging by the start of a sunset he could see through a window nearby.

"Let May know you're staying here tonight," was all the explanation he got. "No need for you to ride all the way home while you're this sick. That is, if she doesn't mind a slumber party." This was _some_ slumber party—even being with _Tony freaking Stark_ it was the worst sleepover of his life—but he'd readily admit he'd much rather stay still for the time being. He grabbed the phone and it wasn't long before he'd gotten permission to stay for the night. He'd have to deal with calling out of school tomorrow, but _that_ was a problem for tomorrow Peter.

Current Peter curled up on the couch and let Mr. Stark's hesitant backrub and the soft drone of a random TV show lull him into sleep.


End file.
